Saturday. Surprisingly, but the heat.
blackbirds cry, in the evening in June.
A strange because, that before
Hawthorn scratches in glass,
chased by the wind (but the window
I discovered), acacia crackled
and fight, flames, heralded
On the approximation of frost.
everything worked out, and even the blackbird sings.
In the morning fiddling with the Czech poetry.
neighbor came, I asked iodine;
gone, filling the room with perfume.
And the smell in the middle of the day,
memories avalanche rescue,
I messed up the entire second half.
Not so unusual for me.
already dark, and I take a pen,
to record, that I feel lethargy,
that the sea was a gentle morning,
but by the evening again raged.